


Stages On A Saturday Night: Five Ways the Washington Capitals Dealt with Their Playoff Loss

by nicoleh262



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Five Stages of Grief, Gen, M/M, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleh262/pseuds/nicoleh262
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's over.</p><p>The buzzer sounds, and the crowd is on its feet cheering.</p><p>But not for them. Not for him."</p><p>The aftermath of the 5/19 Stanley Cup Playoff through the eyes of seven Caps players, based on the five stages of the grieving process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages On A Saturday Night: Five Ways the Washington Capitals Dealt with Their Playoff Loss

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this the Sunday after the game as a way for me to combat my own post-playoffs depression. It has five parts, one for each step in the grieving process. This is entirely medusacascade22's fault, as I would not have even started watching hockey without her. She beta'd this and is pretty much the best person ever. 
> 
> (Also, I am aware that Nicky, Sasha, and Ovi flew to IIHF on breakdown day, but for the purposes of this fic, they don’t.)
> 
> This is my first ever hockey fic, so... Enjoy!

**1\. Denial**

 

There are ten seconds left. It's the third period, and they're down two to one in the last game of the series. Pressure's on. Sasha's scrabbling against the glass as he shoots the puck over to Brooks. Brooks passes it to Nick, who gives it to Mike, who shoots it back and--

 

It's over.

 

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd is on its feet cheering.

 

But not for them. Not for him.

 

Nicklas Backstrom replays this scene in his head over and over again as he skates circles around the rink at Kettler. The Caps had left Madison Square pretty quickly, and Nick thought he might find some solace at home ice.

 

So far, he hasn't.

 

He blames everyone for that loss-- the refs, the thousands of Rangers fans at that stadium, the coaches-- but mostly he blames himself. He'd had dozens of opportunities to score and bring them to post-season glory, but he'd missed every one. Yet again, they were another playoff disappointment, just like the last four seasons.

 

And it was all his fault.

 

Nicklas skates until the ice is too rough to keep going; the janitor's passed by the windows over the rink, staring, at least three times already, so he concedes it's probably  time to pack it in anyway. He sighs and grabs his gear, resolving to knock back a shot or two when he gets home.

 

_thwump, thwump, thwump, thwump_

 

Nick pauses at the heavy sounds coming from the weight room. He pokes his head in through the open door.

 

**2\. Anger**

 

_thwump, thwump, thwump, thwump_

 

Alexander Ovechkin is pissed.

 

No, he's not even pissed, he's fucking  _furious_. At everyone. At everything. The Rangers, Coach, his team, even this damned punching bag he found when he came to Kettler to blow off some steam. He hates all of it.

 

He's really just angry with himself, which is probably why he's in here alone. It's his fault they lost, anyway, so he deserves this. He's been with this team for  _eight_ years, and he's yet to take them to the Cup.

 

Why didn't he score? Just  _one_ goal would've made a difference. It's never easy to score, especially against Lundqvist and with minimal ice time, but he expects the best out of himself. Team captain's supposed to be the leader, the hero, the one everyone counts on and looks up to. Why couldn't he do it?

 

Alex slams his fist into the bag again. This isn't helping. He's just going to get bruises on his knuckles and it's not going to change the score of that game. He sighs and begins unraveling the bandages from around his hands.

 

"Hey," calls a voice softly from the door.

 

Alex is ready to glare at whomever's disturbing his moment of self-loathing when he realizes it's Nicky Backstrom. He's standing awkwardly in the doorway, as if unsure whether he's allowed to be here or not with his bag and skates slung over his shoulder.

 

Alex doesn't smile, returning his gaze instead to his hands. He resumes unwrapping them. "Hey yourself," he says gruffly.

 

Nick frowns. He starts to ask something, then stops mid-sentence. He licks his lips and tries again. "How long have you been here?"

 

"A few hours," Alex responds as he begins packing up his things. He has a text from Dmitry Orlov, but he'll check it later. "You too?"

 

"Yeah." Nick hesitates again, but then his words all tumble out at once. "I am so sorry, Ovi. The game was all my fault. I should have scored. I--"

 

"Is not your fault," Alex cuts in. "Is mine. I am captain, I am supposed to lead the team to victory. Not loss. I am... humiliated."

 

Nick shakes his head. "No you are not. At least, not to me. To me you are still: 'Alexander Ovechkin, the great Russian Machine!'" Nick makes a large gesture with his arms. Alex smiles a little, giving him a light shove. "Capitals win as a team, and lose as a team. It is not the fault of just one guy. Okay?"

 

Alex's grin broadens. "How has my little Nikita become so wise? I thought wise men had beards!"

 

The two laugh, heartily. The weight of that night's game begins to ease off of their shoulders.

 

"Drinks at my place?" Nick asks.

 

Alex smiles so broadly Nick doesn't need an answer.

 

**3\. Bargaining**

 

At the sound of the final buzzer, Sasha Semin closes his eyes. He's not here. This is not happening.

 

On the flight home, he keeps to himself-- although, that's how it normally is anyway. Ovi isn’t talking to him today; Sasha can tell he's dealing with his own problems at the moment. He's clenching and unclenching his fists, eyebrows furrowed, concentrating on something Sasha can't see. He's concerned, but if Ovi wanted advice, he'd ask for it.

 

Sasha stares out the window, ignoring everyone else as he tries to think things out. It's not hard; the bus is eerily quiet, even for after a loss.

 

If he'd scored, then  _they'd_ be the ones celebrating right now, not the Rangers. He was on the ice at the last minute; he'd had the puck and the opportunity, so why couldn't he do it? Maybe... maybe he had! Surely he had! Surely he  _must_ have!

 

Sasha sits upright in his seat. He should go tell Coach, now, before they get too far to go back.

 

He should tell him...  _what_ , exactly? That with his talent, he must've scored a goal at some point and they should turn the plane around immediately so they could go play the overtime round? Sasha shakes his head. No, he's being ridiculous. He settles back into his chair and resumes staring despondently out the window.

 

He feels helpless. There must be  _something_ he can do to help his team. After having fought so hard, Sasha's not willing to simply roll over and admit defeat. That's not how he works.

 

At a loss for any better ideas, Sasha roots around in his backpack until he finds the small, pocket-sized copy of the NHL rulebook he got when he was first drafted. He combs through it for quite a while, looking for a loophole, or a bad call, or  _something_ that someone missed. He finally gives up after about two hours of searching and resigns himself to staring at the back of Coach's head, hoping the league executives would catch something Sasha had missed due to the language gap. They'd call Coach, inform him of their newfound victory, and everything would be fine.

 

The call never comes.

~

Dmitry Orlov notices something.

 

Dmitry Orlov notices a lot of things, actually.

 

Because his team writes him off as being essentially illiterate (which he isn’t, actually) Dmitry’s pretty much a loner. While this has its obvious disadvantages (perpetual loneliness, for starters) it still has some benefits.

 

Dmitry spends a lot of time studying his teammates. This is partly just to understand what’s going on around him, partly in the hopes that someday what he learns will come in handy in conversation (if anyone were to actually talk to him, that is), and partly because he doesn't have much else to do. So he watches. He studies. He notices.

 

What he notices tonight is that Sasha Semin is upset. Very, very upset. He’s sitting by himself on the plane, not speaking to or looking at anyone else. He's done something wrong and blames himself. He seems to be trying to fix it, too, because he spends over an hour reading a book Dmitry can’t see the title of, eyebrows pressed together in concentration.

 

Dmitry concludes--after a short analysis--that Sasha's source of anxiety is their series loss. Sasha doesn't have much of a life outside of hockey, as far as Dmitry knows, and if it were something else he'd surely talk to Ovechkin about it.

 

It's then that Dmitry realizes how he can put his powers of observation to practical use. It's also how Alexander Ovechkin and Nicklas Backstrom show up on Sasha's doorstep that night, Russian vodka and action movies in hand.

 

**4\. Depression**

 

Brooks Laich is a veteran. By now, Mike Green is too, but he feels like a rookie all over again.

 

When they get home after the game, Brooks pulls two beers out of the refrigerator and brings them to the living area. Mike's lying there on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen with an equally blank expression on his face. He's hugging a pillow and his knees are tucked to his chest.

 

Brooks sits down next to Mike's head and sets his beer on the coffee table. He takes a swig of his own as he waits for Mike to talk. It's become their system, if one of them ever has a problem. After a few minutes, Mike finally speaks up.

 

"We lost, Brooks." His voice sounds hollow. "Everyone was counting on us. This year was gonna be different. And we--" He stops and corrects himself. "And  _I_ failed them."

 

Brooks shakes his head and places a gentle hand on Mike's shoulder. "Greenie, it's not your fault. You tried your best-- we all did. We all worked hard; we'll just have to work even harder next year."

 

"But that's just it, Brooks," Mike says in a near whisper. "What if there isn't a next year? What if I have to go to another team?" He rolls onto his back and looks Brooks in the eye. "What if  _this_ was it?"

 

"You think I don't think about that?" Brooks asks quietly, staring at the bottle in his hands. His gaze flickers over to Mike for a moment, who's visibly torn by guilt. Brooks sighs and motions for Mike to move closer. Mike swings himself into a sitting position and rests his head on Brooks' shoulder. Their hands tangle together between their laps. “They know you were injured a lot this year. GMGM understands you've had a rough season. He likes you; he’s not just going to kick you out on the street."

 

Mike grumbles under his breath, "If I had just done better in the playoffs... If I had scored  _one_ more goal--"

 

"--you and I would still be having this exact conversation," Brooks finishes. Mike sighs. He knows Brooks is right.

 

"We all worked so hard, Brooks," Mike says wistfully. "It just... doesn't seem fair."

 

"I know," Brooks says. "It sucks. But shit happens. There's not much we can do about it."

 

Mike nods, sobered by these words.

 

"We gave them a hell of a series," Brooks continues. "If they were so good, why couldn't they beat us out in the first four? They couldn't even beat us in game six, and they got us by one goal in game seven. One goal. We fought hard, Mike, and we never surrendered. Don't forget that. We never gave up, and neither should you."

 

They stay like that for a while. Mike is as comforted by Brooks' words as Brooks himself. It will hurt for a while, but Mike knows, eventually, everything is going to be okay.

 

**5\. Acceptance**

 

Braden Holtby is fine. Totally, completely fine.

 

People might expect the goaltender of the team that's just lost the Stanley Cup Semifinals to blame himself, but honestly? He's just happy to be going home.

 

He misses his fiancée, and he wants to spend as much time with his son as he can before the season starts again. Oh, sure, he's more than grateful for the opportunities Dale Hunter and the Caps have given him, but professional hockey--especially in the post-season--is pretty damn stressful. Not like being a parent won't be, but he wants to forget hockey for a little while and just be Braden and Family. He's young, but his occupation requires him to be pretty much a master in keeping a padded hand on the concept of change. 

 

At first, he was afraid he wouldn't be ready for it: that he was too inexperienced, that his job would keep him away from Benjamin for far too long, that he generally had no idea what the hell he'd gotten himself into, but all of that changed in the delivery room when he'd held his son for the first time. He was so tiny, so  _so_ tiny Braden wondered how a thing so small could even exist.

 

But it did.  _He_ did. He'd grown out of love, and that was the way he'd grow up, too. Little Benjamin had gripped his father's finger as if to say, "Hello. I don't know you, but I love you."

 

And that was all Braden needed to know that, whatever the outcome of the series, he had people who'd love him regardless. That was how he knew everything was going to be totally, completely fine.


End file.
